In praise of Steely Dan

by JOHNSON CUMMINS

Usually, this little space is reserved for rock ’n’ roll racket, punk rock pandemonium and noisy nuisances, but this week, let me take you on a slight detour. In case the sudden surge of pudgy, middle-aged men and soccer moms decked out in cargo shorts, Oakley sunglasses, NASCAR hats and croc shoes standing in line in front of Schwartz’s didn’t tip you off, we are indeed on the cusp of Jazz Festival season. Now I’m not going to lie and tell you that Jazz Fest is the most kick-ass fest of all time, but every year it does cast some pearls, if you look hard enough.

THRILLS FOR SALE: Steely Dan’s Fagen and Becker

The one pearl rolling my way would be the Steely Dan shows on Tuesday and Wednesday at Place des Arts. Yeah, you read that right—Steely fucking Dan. I feel like I just outed myself as a card-carrying NAMBLA member or a premature ejaculator, but fit me for a corduroy blazer and stick a pipe in my mouth because I love ’em. Not an easy thing to admit, as they are probably the most un-rock band that has ever existed within the parameters of rock. Even my fellow music-nerd friends, who boast giant, eclectic record collections that include everything from Miles to Myles (yep, as in Alannah), have a hard time swallowing the Orson Welles panoramics, cool jazz swing and fearless pretentiousness of the mighty Dan.

I know most of you have probably stopped reading this at the mere mention of the ultimate anti-rock rock band, but to you brave souls who’ve stumbled this far and are waiting for some sort of punchline, let me assure you there isn’t one. Trying to explain to someone the intrepid complexity and utter perfection in Steely Dan is like trying to explain a Jodorowsky movie or a Bazooka Joe comic strip—it simply can’t be done.

Not only were main Dan dudes Donald Fagen and Walter Becker pure geniuses in the songwriting, lyrical and arrangement departments but they also had an acute sense for picking the best of the A-list session players, like shuffle king Bernard Purdy, Steve Gadd, Wayne Shorter, Jeff “Skunk” Baxter and Michael McDonald. Just take Elliot Randall’s razor-sharp guitar lead on “Reelin’ in the Years” (incidentally, Jimmy Page’s favourite guitar lead of all time), or Larry Carlton’s drama-laced lead on “Kid Charlemagne.” Un-fucking-beatable!

Being a Steely Dan fan is no easy task. Most people just think you’re a complete dork for liking them. Jazzbos find them to be the milquetoasts of the diminished chord, while rock people, although suckers for Steely Dan’s radio staples, find them a bit too bookish once they try to dig into the catalogue. It’s no wonder they don’t sell shirts or bumper stickers. No one wants to openly admit they dig the Dan. Hipsters can spout about “yacht rock” all they want while chortling up their thrift-store-shirt sleeves, but there will probably never come a day when most people will think Steely Dan or their fans are cool. So Donald and Walter, if your publicist happens to unearth this scrap and you actually got past the NAMBLA line and are actually reading this, I tip my Peruvian hat to you.

ON A STEELY HORSE I RIDE… JONATHAN.CUMMINS@GMAIL.COM